The Adventure of the Time Machine
by Cross-Section of the Whovian
Summary: Amid a recent frozen pipe epidemic in London, a bow-tied plumber is quickly revealed to be a fraud. With Sherlock suddenly called away, John struggles to understand the man's intentions as they clean the mess left behind. Summary updated per upload.
1. Friction at Baker Street

"John. John! The sink's frozen again!"

"Sherlock, I'm busy!"

"I don't care, half the solutions have crystallized! Help me move them!"

Dr. John Watson growled at the stove as he turned down the heat on his half-cooked dinner and left the stir-fry to simmer. The world famous, self-titled Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes was stalking back and forth across the kitchen in a frustrated rage, carriying mason jars full of clear, thick, unidentifiable liquid from the sink to the refrigerator, carelessly shoving freshly-bought groceries in the fridge aside and crushing them against one another to make room for his latest and now-seemingly-failed science experiment. John watched him for a few seconds, then grabbed a warm jar full of what appeared to be tan-colored ice and followed him, but he was shoved aside as he tried to set the jar beside others.

"No, no!" Sherlock nearly growled, glaring at the jar as if it had personally offended his intellect. He cast a banishing finger across the kitchen. "In the microwave, it must be reheated!"

John sighed and followed the order, walking across the kitchen to the microwave and opening it. Inside was something slimy and pink on a plate that smelled foul. He didn't even ask what it was. He just pulled it out, set it on top of the microwave, and replaced it with the jar of crystal.

"How long?" he called, turning back. He had to ask twice more before Sherlock in his angered haste noticed.

"How long what?"

"For the microwave?"

"Oh." Sherlock waved him away with a scowl. "We'll do them all at once, get more of them over there. They can't be heated at different times."

John gave a resigned sigh and began his own repeated journey of bringing the jars that had solids in them into the microwave. He had no clue what Sherlock was doing with them but there were a lot of them, and they all didn't fit on the microwave plate.

"I can't fit these last three, Sherlock!" he called. "Should I just start the others?"

"No. No. No." Sherlock stuffed the rest of the still-liquid jars in the fridge with a series of dangerously loud clinks and stormed over to the microwave. John moved aside and watched him briefly attempt an impossible problem of geometry, then turn to look around the kitchen for an alternate solution. Sherlock's eyes fell on the stove and narrowed as he considered it. No. His gaze dropped to the oven below. Yes.

"John, get a baking sheet."

"We don't have one."

A steady look from Sherlock was all it took for John to exhale tiredly and grab his jacket. "I'll be back," he called as he hustled down the stairs to hail a taxi.

One supermarket trip later, Sherlock was draped across the couch in clear dejection. "It's ruined," he muttered as John came up the stairs brandishing the necessary cooking tray. One of his sleeves was unbuttoned and the box of nicotine patches was open on the table next to him. "They're all ruined. That damned sink, I told Mrs. Hudson we need it fixed, I don't care how..."

John stood in front of Sherlock for a few moments, but when the detective turned his head to look up at his flatmate, the good doctor just shook his head and walked to the kitchen to find a place for the useless baking sheet. Of course it was ruined. Whatever it was.

He stopped short as something glistened at him from the kitchen floor.

"Oh Sherlock, come on, you couldn't even clean up this...what is this?"

"Harmless. Mop's in the cupboa-"

"Yes, I _know_ where the mop is, thanks." John scowled down at the broken glass and thickly laid contents of whatever jar Sherlock had either dropped, knocked over, or even thrown down in a rage on the already-stained linoleum, but he stepped over the mess and set the sheet on the counter. Things were really getting out-of-hand in the flat. Sherlock's temper was starting to flare as more and more of his science experiments were ruined by a growing plumbing problem in the entire building. It seemed to be stemming from a leak of some sort in the basement flat. Mrs. Hudson claimed she was trying to get ahold of a plumber but they were all either busy with similar problems throughout the neighborhood and in fact the city itself, or simply unreachable. Everyone seemed to be having stubborn plumbing problems this time of year that were more important than theirs, or at least had been called in first. It was almost as if the forces of the universe itself were converging to make 221B Baker Street the single most miserable flat in all of London. And of course John had to clean up after Sherlock's frustration, because Mrs. Hudson was getting fairly sick of it, herself, and the world-famous genius couldn't be bothered to clean up while he was pouting in the parlor.

At least _this_ mess was inorganic. Or so John hoped as he knelt down to pick up the larger pieces of glass. Sherlock had called it harmless. That meant very, very little these days.

About halfway through the mess he smelled something strange. At first he thought it was whatever was on the floor but then he realized it was burning food. His dinner! He ran to the stove but he only had to glance at it to know it was ruined. Sherlock hadn't even done him the courtesy of shutting off the heat. He turned off the stove himself and scraped out the mess into the trash, then carried the burnt pan to the sink. He turned on the faucet. No water. Right. Frozen pipes still. With a helpless shake of the head he left it there with some dish soap in it and returned to finish Sherlock's mess. The consulting detective made not a sound.


	2. An Unexpected Guest

Lugging the garbage out the next evening was no parade, but at least Sherlock helped with that. It turned out that some of the solutions-whatever they were-could be reused, and it was just a matter of obtaining more from the lab at St. Bartholomew's. Saturday morning, Sherlock did just that, and called John along to help carry a dozen jars of clear fluid and three five-kilogram bags filled with either blue, pink, or white crystals back to the flat. When asked, Sherlock dismissed the experiment as having to do with "the study of temperature change during recrystalization in supersaturated solutions." Something to do with a minor case Lestrade was having him work on out of pity for lack of anything more interesting. Scotland Yard had been quite distant as of late, with very little in the way of major crimes to be solved. The consulting detective had not been consulted on anything truly worthy of his intellect for weeks. Even Mr. Moriarty seemed to be too busy to be bothered with making a public appearance. Needless to say, Sherlock was going slightly mad with boredom.

The cab pulled up to 221B and Sherlock and John gathered up straining plastic bags, paid the cabbie, and got out. After an awkward neither-of-us-has-a-free-hand shuffle to get the door open, they made their way upstairs and Sherlock directed John to arrange the jars in a cluster on the counter and unscrew the lids. Apparently he was going to recreate the experiment right then and there. John didn't mind. It would keep Sherlock's hands busy for a few minutes at least.

He disappeared into the parlor to watch some television and leave the man to his meticulous work. He was still flipping through channels when Mrs. Hudson came up and knocked lightly on their open door and leaned in. John turned to look at her and she smiled in greeting.

"Hello John. The plumber's here to inspect the pipes in 221C, so if you hear banging downstairs, don't be too alarmed."

John nodded at her. "Thanks-wait, on a Saturday?"

"Yes, I thought that funny, too. He said all the plumbers have been very busy all week so they've extended their hours to cover all the problems with pipes that have been happening. It seems that all of London's been having pipe problems with the sudden cold snap that came through, biggest they've ever seen!"

"Ah." John nodded. Mrs. Hudson hovered for a moment, obviously wanting to converse more about the subject, but John just smiled somewhat awkwardly at her and thanked her and turned back to channel flipping. She gave a soft sigh unheard over the television and retreated back down the stairs. None of her tenants ever wanted to talk. What was so difficult about a light bit of conversation?

At around half past noon Sherlock was still dominating the kitchen, heating jars and dissolving minute amounts of colored crystals in fluids, so John went out for lunch to a cafe alone. He could have invited Sarah, but she'd had a rough Friday night and he was getting the idea that Sherlock's constant irritation was rubbing off on him and consequently straining his relationship with her. Besides, he'd escaped to her house one too many times lately and she'd made it pretty clear that he needed to stop complaining about the flat. Giving her some space right now was probably best, especially since her place also had some plumbing issues.

Sherlock joined him in the cafe about fifteen minutes later. John didn't bother asking how he knew which one to go to. Apparently the consulting detective had finished mixing whatever he was dissolving and the solutions were cooling, so he had time to kill once again. He actually ordered food, a clear sign that he was utterly disinterested in whatever Lestrade had him working on. The two of them ate quietly and made casual remarks about the pipes and the flat and the lack of excitement lately. Sherlock felt that something was wrong. It was just too quiet. Scotland Yard had nothing, none of his contacts had anything...It was as if a blanket was over the city. A blanket of oppressive peace. _Boring. _

They walked back to the flat together in perhaps even lower spirits than when John had set out alone, but Sherlock stopped John just inside the door, motioning for him to be silent. The doctor looked up at him curiously, but froze when he heard something break and a man's voice quietly saying "Oops."

Sherlock's long legs got him up the stairs first but John was right on his heels. The movement was coming from the kitchen. Sherlock tossed off his scarf and coat and vaulted a stack of books on the ground to protect his precious experiments. By the time John had navigated the front room Sherlock was already causing quite a commotion, chasing a stranger in a tweed jacket and a pink dress shirt around the kitchen table, shouting at him to get away from anything he was escaping toward at any given moment. The stranger shouted back in a loud, polite, but ineffectual tone to please calm down and that everything was under control, knocking things over in the process with slightly wild gestures and just creating a general mess. Sherlock was having none of it. John disappeared into his room to retrieve the perfect way to halt the chaos. Returning to the kitchen and timing his interruption carefully, he stepped in front of the intruder just as he rounded the table again and leveled a revolver with his forehead.

The man stopped dead and Sherlock stopped behind him to cut off his exit. The man stared cross-eyed at the barrel of the gun, smiled hesitantly, looked back at Sherlock who glared sharply at him, smiled back at the gun, and held up his hands nervously, flexing his fingers a few times in a fidgety but not particularly frightened manner. There was something strange in his right hand. John lowered the gun to his chest, his expression serious. The man looked from the gun up to John and still kept that nervous smile.

"H...Hello," he said with an apprehensive cheer, obviously intended to disarm but not really working. "I'm the plumber."

John narrowed his eyes and tightened his finger on the trigger. He didn't need Sherlock's disbelieving scoff behind him to know that was a lie. He didn't look anything like a plumber. He had no uniform to say the very least. Just that jacket, the dress shirt, and now that he was facing John with his hands up the man could see that he wore also a red paisley bowtie and matching red suspenders. Hardly a plumber's outfit. John also got a good look at what he was holding, although he didn't recognize it as anything he'd seen before. It looked like some kind of high-tech flashlight with an exposed green LED on one end.

"Why don't you take a seat in the living room and tell us exactly what's going on here," he suggested in a deadly, militaristic calm. He started to back away, still holding the gun out, and indicated for the intruder to follow. With Sherlock taking up the rear to keep his exit barred, the trio marched back into the front room and sat him down in a chair. Sherlock retrieved his own gun from the mantle above the fireplace and John lowered his and flipped the safety back on. He'd leave the interviewing to Sherlock, who was undoubtedly better at these things.

"I'll phone the police," he said, heading back to his room to replace the revolver.

"No!" Sherlock called after him. He turned curiously. Sherlock shook his head. "Not yet..."

John understood immediately with a disapproving sigh. Of course. Sherlock was bored. Someone had just broken into their flat, or perhaps decieved Mrs. Hudson and been let in under the guise of fixing the plumbing. Sherlock wanted to figure out why. A puzzle was a puzzle to him, it didn't matter how close to home it hit. John picked up Sherlock's discarded outerwear and began to hang it up.

Sherlock turned back to their unexpected guest, and gestured casually with the gun.

"Now...Tell me what you think you're doing here."

The stranger seemed entirely unperturbed by the weapon. In fact, he seemed almost tiredly amused.

"You humans and your guns," he muttered to himself, tucking the foreign object he'd been carrying back inside his jacket.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and even John frowned at that one. Humans?


	3. Mysterious Accessories

"John, what do you make of this?"

In the span of about a minute and a half of excited running, Sherlock and the newcomer who called himself "John Smith" had created quite the destructive mess in the kitchen. John didn't even know where to start, what was safe to use to clean things up with, or whether half of it should go in its own special biohazard bag or not. He listened in on the conversation as he picked up the broken fragments of containers he could identify as glass or plastic and washed them off to toss out. This could potentially take hours. Luckily, that was about as much time as he seemed to have, since Sherlock's interview sounded like it was rapidly going nowhere once past name and occupation. They seemed to have been discussing some form of identification issues when Sherlock had called out.

"Hm?"

At the summons he laid down on the counter a large piece of a glass jar quite similar to the ones he'd been carrying that morning and popped his head into the front room again. Sherlock was sitting across from their guest, one leg folded over the other, the gun resting on its side beneath his fingertips on the edge of the arm rest. He was waving a black leather booklet slightly in John's direction. The man took it and opened it. Inside was what appeared to be a cross between an official photo ID and a business card. It seemed like a government issued plumber's license.

"It looks like some credentials for a Mr. John Smith, plumber."

Sherlock studied Mr. Smith narrowly. Mr. Smith smiled pleasantly from one man to the other.

"You see?" he asked lightly. "Now can I please get on with my work?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and adopted a light, sarcastic tone. "_Certainly_ but...there are a few problems, Mr. Smith." His tone dropped down darkly again. "Problem number one, there's no such thing as a plumber's license, if that's what you're trying to offer us as proof." Mr. Smith's smile faded to something more nervous again. Sherlock continued. "There are NVQ certificates, but whatever that is...is entirely fabricated."

John frowned and studied it closer. "It looks fairly official."

"Does it?"

Sherlock held out his hand, took it back, and flipped it open, tilting back and forth slightly. His eyes flickered around the paper momentarily, then he closed it and tossed it a bit short back to their guest. The man almost caught the booklet on the very tips of his fingers, but dropped it at the last second and had to bend down to pick it up.

"You know, you're not a very pleasant person," Mr. Smith commented lightly, sitting back again and tucking the booklet inside another breast pocket.

"Problem number two," Sherlock continued, ignoring him, leaving the gun balanced on the arm rest, and steepling his own fingers in front of his chin, "is that slip of paper itself, regardless of what you were trying to pass it off as. Tell me, how did you do it?"

Mr. Smith smirked uncertainly, looking from one man to the other. "How did I...do it?"

"Yes. I don't know how you've done it-"

"-Done what?"

"-But somehow you've hypnotized my colleague."

John frowned at Sherlock. "What?"

"Perhaps it was when he leveled the gun with your head; perhaps it was when you were walking with him back to the room." Sherlock was in rare comment-ignoring form, and folded all of his fingers together save for his right index, which he left up in a point-making gesture. "Perhaps it was even when we first discovered you in the kitchen itself. Perhaps you had opportunity then to induce in John some form of hypnosis that you either hadn't the time for concerning me, or had simply failed at attempting. For you see, I see nothing on your little paper trick, Mr. Smith. Just a few holographic wavy lines on a blank background."

It was difficult to say who was more surprised, John or Mr. Smith. John spoke first, though.

"I'm...sorry, what? You didn't see the license?"

"No." Sherlock drew out the word as he turned to look at John. "I would be very wary of listening to anything he says, John, and also I would suggest returning to the kitchen until I have figured this little trick of his out. Are you certain you saw some sort of credentials?"

John nodded, looking not particularly certain at all. He didn't make any movement to go back to the kitchen though. "It was a photo ID with his name and a certified license for working with the plumbing of a house, with a specialization...in...frozen pipes..." Saying it out loud made it sound slightly ridiculous now that he knew it had been somehow fake. "Can I see it again?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows expectantly at Mr. Smith, who shook his head and smiled.

"Sorry, one-time only." He was clearly not taking any of this seriously despite being a captured criminal.

With a short exhale and an abundance of impatience, Sherlock picked up the handgun left on the edge of the chair and pointed it at Mr. Smith. Their guest made a dramatic eye-roll and pulled out the booklet again, muttering something about guns. Sherlock took it from him with a curt thank-you and handed it to John, who opened it and studied it very closely.

Sherlock lowered the gun back to the chair's edge refolded his hands.

"So why don't we cut to the chase, Mr. Smith, what agency do you report to?" he asked.

"...Oh god, where did it go?" John muttered quietly. "It's just blank..."

"It's fading?" Sherlock asked opver his shoulder. "Good, perhaps the hypnosis can be broken..."

"Hold on," Mr. Smith interrupted, "agency?"

Sherlock's head snapped back to his guest quickly. "_Yes._ If you had even made the _slightest_ attempt to look like a plumber, I might have thought Moriarty was sending some form of probe into my life, though I highly doubt he'd even be_ that _obvious. Since you aren't particularly subtle about this and have clearly underestimated my perception and intellect, it's clear you're not one of his , we're left with a bit of a blank. So, which agency is scrutinizing me this time?"

Mr. Smith looked around the room as if seeking some kind of audience, laughing. "D'you think I'm a spy? I'm not from any agency."

Sherlock had little time or care for his display. "Could I see that device you were brandishing at the microwave earlier?"

"What, this?" Mr. Smith pulled the flashlight-looking thing from inside his jacket and waved it slightly.

"Yes." Sherlock held out his hand once again.

Mr. Smith gestured with the device at John. "Could I have that paper back first?"

"No. The device, if you would."

Mr. Smith looked insulted, but Sherlock was unaffected. "Mr. Smith, please don't make me constantly hold you at gunpoint for anything you happen to have on you, it's going to become very boring and very repetitive very quickly..."

The two held a ternse eye contact for a silent moment, then, reluctantly, the man handed over the device. Sherlock immediately set out examining it from every angle. Mr. Smith folded his arms over his chest and slumped slightly in his chair, adopting, if Sherlock were to actually believe the way he was acting, a _pout_.

"What is this?" the detective asked, not expecting an answer.

"A _screwdriver," _Mr. Smith replied, more that a little irate.

Sherlock's probing fingers paused and his eyes flickered back to their guest. A _what_? What kind of a lie was that? He scowled sharply. He did not appreciate the man's insolent humor.

"_What?" _the man challenged, shifting his arms to fold them even more tightly.

With thinly-pressed lips, Sherlock held the device from the end opposite the LED piece and flicked it sharply. Half of it slid apart in sections to elongate, four claws on the far end holding the LED in place opened, and the LED itself lit up brightly. The entire device emitted quiet electronic humming that rapidly climbed in pitch and intensity as Sherlock moved it around experimentally, and the lights in the flat flickered on without apparent cause and brightened in sync with the rising sound.

"Don't break it!" Mr. Smith, on instant alert as soon as Sherlock had figured out how to activate it, launched himself at the detective from the chair and grabbed for the whining device. He knocked it out of Sherlock's hand in his haste and immediately dove for it as the lights flickered back off and the device's pitch dropped. Sherlock rose quickly, knocking his own gun from the edge of the chair, and attempted to pull him away from it. The two fell to the ground in a small scuffle, wrestling for control over the now-silent device. They both successfully found strong two-handed grips on it and they both rose to their knees, trying to pull it comically from one another's grasp, shouting things angrily at one another and at John until the retired army medic's voice rang out over the both of them.

"_Gentlemen!" _he called in a surprisingly commanding tone. They both paused and look at him. "How many times am I going to have to do this?" John stood a few feet away from them, Sherlock's handgun pointed at Mr. Smith. His face was tired but militaristically hard again.

"Let it go," he said, his voice quiet once more as the flat fell silent.

Mr. Smith didn't release his grip. "I'm not giving up the sonic," he stated resolutely. "He almost blew apart the entire building's electrical system!" His gesture at Sherlock to emphasize his point cost him his advantage, however, and the detective ripped the device from his single-handed grip. Mr. Smith made a cursory grabby motion to get it back but Sherlock was already standing and inspecting it once again. He was not playing games and John still had the gun pointed at their guest.

"This is some sort of remote device..." he muttered to himself, resuming his chair as if the entire scuffle hadn't happened. Mr. Smith took a bit of prompting to get back into his, but soon complete order was restored. He sat down with an unplesant huff and straightened his bowtie and jacket. John decided to keep the gun at the ready should something like that happen again. Mr. Smith was only on the edge of his seat, leaning forward nervously, clearly worried about the fate of his curious trinket.

Sherlock had pulled out his Blackberry and was rapidly typing keywords into search bars, trusting his phone to tell him what Mr. Smith obviously would not. As he rotated the item once again to inspect for a serial number or some sort of manufacturer, Mr. Smith played with his hands in agitation, and licked his lips, wanting to say something but apparently unable to. Sherlock almost enjoyed finally getting to him after the way he'd been acting.

A call from Lestrade interrupted his searching though, and he took it immediately, rising from his chair.

"It's Scotland Yard, John, keep an eye on him," he said needlessly. He disappeared into the kitchen with the device. Mr. Smith half-rose as if to follow him, looking more anxious than ever, but John and his gun stepped between them and he fell back down in defeat.

The retired medic sighed. Of all the times for Lestrade to call them, it had to be now? Of course it was something big; if he had been asking for an update on a smaller case, he would have simply texted, or not even bothered, instead waiting on Sherlock to contact _him_ with an answer.

Sherlock's voice was low in the other room, and the call was brief. Mr. Smith hardly had the time to attempt small talk with John before the detective had burst back into the room with a fresh energy and was taking long, brisk strides toward the door.

"Keep him here John!" he was saying as he pulled on his coat and scarf. "I'll send someone to hold him so you can join me later, but this is _big_!"

"What? Sherlock, I can't just _hold _an intruder here! What about the...the hypnosis or whatever?"

Sherlock paused at the door and turned around, tugging on gloves from his coat pocket. "Just...don't do anything he says," he commanded simply. "Don't give him the gun, don't take the gun off him. He can't hypnotize you into doing anything you don't want to, and he can only make you see things you don't expect. And he might not be able to do anything at all without _this_." He brandished the device he still had in one hand before tucking it into a coat pocket. "So I doubt you have much to worry about. Just expect everything, and you'll be fine!"

Mr. Smith stood sharply. "Hey-ey! You can't take the sonic with you!" He started toward the detective but John intercepted him and forced him back, retreating towards the door himself. "Give it back!" The man called, but Sherlock was already gone. He disappeared down the stairs at a thundering pace that would have tripped a lesser man.

"Sherlock, you can't do this!" John yelled after him. "Am I expected to shoot him if he tries to escape?"

Sherlock's voice floated back up to him. "He won't! You won't have to! He's harmless! Get him to help you clean up the kitchen or something! Join me as soon as you can!"

He slammed the front door closed with a bit too much enthusiasm behind him.


	4. The Doctor and the Medic

John looked at the open door behind him, at the guest who smiled with mocking pleasantry at him, and then at the kitchen which, as Sherlock had reminded him, still very much needed attending to. He sighed loudly. Why was he always left to clean up the aftermath?

"Alright you, get up. Until Sherlock sends an officer you and I are going to clean up the mess you made in the kitchen," he directed at his "guest." Mr. Smith slapped his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet with a big show.

"Alright," he agreed. "Just for the record, though," he held his index fingers up in a wide gesture as he followed John into the kitchen, "I like you much better than your friend. He didn't even bother introducing himself. Not that you did either but at least you didn't steal things from me and leave." He dropped one hand but pointed the other at Sherlock's gun that John still held. "And, would you mind putting that away? I'm not a big fan of guns, and I promise you, I'm not dangerous and I'm not very fast and despite what your tall friend Sherlock said, I didn't put you under any sort of hypnosis." He dropped his voice to a mutter for a moment, "At least, not_ this _time, but _anyway, _yeah, if you could tuck that gun away somewhere, it would be really helpful." He offered a big, goofy, friendly grin as he sort of perched near the table on a small patch of unsoiled linoleum. "I'm not going to run because I know you have it so having it out is just a general inconvenience to both of us and really kills the mood I think because, y'know, I want us to be friends! Because I actually did come to take a look at your pipes even if I'm not a real plumber and before you try to accuse me of tresspassing your friend _did_ steal something I own which, if this is the right year, I _believe_ is a crime, if I'm not mistaken...which in fact I might be-"

"Um, excuse me, I hate to be rude and interrupt, but if you could, y'know, pick up some of this glass and just toss it in that bin over there while you talked?" John had tucked the gun away in his trousers at the request and gestured across the kitchen, temporarily silencing the talkative Mr. Smith. "I'm John, by the way. Dr. John Watson." He crouched down to continue cleaning.

That seemed to light up Mr. Smith in an entirely new way. His grin shifted from goofy to genuinely interested as he slipped off his tweed jacket and hung it from the back of a nearby chair.

"Oh _are_ you?" he asked, crouching down and mimicking John's cleanup tactic from the far side of the table. "You know, I'm actually a doctor too. Your friend Sherlock called you John, would you mind if I called you that, too? I know people can be touchy about their titles..."

"Uhhh...Yeah, yeah, that's fine. So you're Doctor Smith, then?" John was also interested in this revelation. Might as well be hospitable to his guest until he was relieved of duty. For all he knew, Sherlock would forget about sending an officer entirely and he'd have to entertain the man until nightfall. "What's your specialty?"

Dr. Smith seemed to hesitate at that. "Well, I'm not actually a 'Doctor Smith;' you can just call me The Doctor. Well, just 'Doctor.' John Smith isn't my real name, as I'm sure your friend there guessed..."

John frowned as he tossed the last of his larger pieces in the bin and rose to find a broom. He was fairly certain they had an old one he wouldn't mind sacrificing to this..._mess_ somewhere. "So what is your real name?" he asked, opening a small closet door and rooting around inside.

Mr. Smith smiled thinly. "If I gave you a false name before, why would I give you my real name now? Sort of defeats the purpose doesn't it?" He rose as well and tossed out his collection of debris with a series of loud chinks.

"Well, you told me you were a Doctor, that's about as personal as a name, isn't it?" John withdrew a very old and ratty broom that was probably complements of Mrs. Hudson. It would do to get the finer pieces of glass and the solid ichor separated from the liquid. "Doctor" Smith resumed his perch near the table and slipped off a shoe to inspect how dirty it had become. John marveled at how comfortable he was in a flat that he had for all intents and purposes broken into.

"It's a bit easier to find someone with their real name than with a title," the guest said without looking up. "What _is_ this stuff, anyway?"

"Hell if I know, Sherlock uses the kitchen as his personal lab when he can't be bothered to get to Bart or they don't let him in. D'you mind coming over here and holding a dustpan? It's in the cupboard there."

Doctor "Smith" slipped his shoe back on and crossed the kitchen to the cupboard. John collected more general wet ick up into a colorful and rather repulsive pile while he waited.

"Find it?" he asked after a few moments had passed. "It's just there on the wall..." He turned to look over his shoulder. The Doctor had disappeared into the closet completely and was rattling things around. John narrowed his eyes curiously. On low alert that his guest was up to something, John laid the broom against the table and closed his hand around the grip of the pistol in his belt before approaching. He poked his head into the closet.

"What are you doing?"

The Doctor whirled around with a mop against his shoulder, a large package of paper towels in one hand, and a mason jar of something oragnic and shapeless suspended in liquid in the other, nearly knocking over a shelf of aerosol cleaners in the process. His eyes shifted around and he smiled again.

"Just...looking," he said awkwardly. He noted where John's hand was, put the things away, and held up his hands in surrender. "Your friend Sherlock has a lot of strange things in jars, doesn't he?"

John's grip tightened on the handle of the gun, but he released it with a short exhale. "I think we'd both appreciate if you didn't touch any of the things you weren't asked to, alright?" he asked testily.

The Doctor's eyes flickered around the small cupboard for a brief moment before spotting the dustpan hanging from a nail near the door. He smiled agreeably once more and gently removed it, holding it out like a token of peace.

John exhaled again. "Come on." He backed away and gestured for the Doctor to leave the cupboard. The man exited and closed the door behind him, and John followed him to the repulsive pile. The medic might have sworn it had changed shape since he'd last glanced at it. He swept it up with his guest's help and the Doctor carried the dustpan it to the bin and dumped it. He made his way to the sink and turned on the faucet to wash off the metal, but of course nothing came out. He leaned down to look at the faucet closely, slowly turning the handle back and forth and watching the lack of water with a quiet fascination.

"There's some water in the fridge you can rinse it off with, I'll scrub it later," John told him, trying to figure out where to put the now-ruined broom. He decided to leave it upside-down against the counter so the mess it had partially soaked up wouldn't touch anything else until it had dried. The Doctor was still inspecting the sink by then, so John retrieved two large plastic jugs of distilled water from the fridge. They were usually used in Sherlock's experiments, but they had since become the flat's main source of water.

"Here." He set one next to the sink. The action and word disturbed the Doctor's curiosity and he looked over at the jug. With a smile and a nod, he opened it and poured a slight bit over the edge of the dustpan. He watched it intently disappear down the drain as if he were waiting for something to happen.

John ignored his strange behavior. As long as the Doctor got most of the mess off the dustpan, he was happy. The medic retrieved a bucket, the mop, and some floor cleaner from the cupboard and poured about half of the contents of the other jug into it with a squirt of cleaner. He hoped Sherlock's experiments were safe to mix with chemicals.

"So what are you actually doing here then, if you don't mind my asking?" He dipped the mop into the bucket and swirled it around to mix the cleaner. He pressed it against the side to dry it off slightly before dumping it into the middle of the mess with a loud slosh. "I mean, if you don't want to tell me your name then fine, Scotland Yard can get that out of you, but I can't see how it'll do you much harm to tell me your business. I mean, you've already been caught..."

He mopped in silence for a moment, waiting for an answer. The Doctor didn't say anything, but John also heard no water running. He turned to see what his guest was doing, and was presented with a rather unexpected view of the Doctor's derriere. The man was on his toes, completely bent over the edge of the sink with his head, shoulders, and one arm inside the bowl itself, rooting around.

John leaned the mop against the table and wandered closer. He leaned over the edge curiously. The Doctor's cheek was practically against the metal bottom of the sink, his eye millimeters from the drain and his fingers probing around the drain's rim.

"...Drop something?" John asked.

"-Ow." There was a dull clang as the Doctor straightened up too quickly and smacked the back of his head against the faucet.

John made a noise, but remained professional. "Please don't break our sink," he warned quietly, sympathetic but reminding himself that this man was an intruder, however clumsy he was. "We don't need a fake plumber making our pipes even worse. _Did_ you drop something? Because I can get a flashlight..."

The Doctor rubbed the back of his head pitiably and adjusted one suspender. There was a small greenish stain near his jaw where he must have accidentally touched the dustpan with his face.

"Oww...It's alright, I didn't drop anything. I was just..." he dropped his eyes back to the sink, "...taking a look." He winced quietly as he felt around his hair and found exactly where he'd been struck, then pulled his hand back to inspect it. No blood. Yet.

John raised a hand. "You've got some, eh..." He made a gesture at the Doctor's jaw. The man felt around there next and again looked at his fingers, then made a disgusted face. John offered him some paper towels that were in reach, and he hastily wiped at it, then wet the paper towel from the jug and cleaned it all off completely.

"What were you looking at?" John asked, watching.

"The drain." The Doctor kept feeling around and looking at his fingers to make sure there was no more mess. "Or, more specifically, the pipes. I'd be able to look _better_ if I had my sonic, _but..._" He trailed off irately and inspected the back of his head once more, decided he was completely clean, and tossed the paper towel in the bin.

"What for?"

"I'm not entirely sure..." The Doctor eyed the sink again. John frowned at him.

"You don't know why you're looking at our drain?"

"I don't know what I'm looking _for _in your drain," the Doctor corrected. "but there's something different...Something about this house, your flat and the basement flat..." He suddenly dove down to look closely at the drain again. "I don't know what it is..." He made a frustrated noise that echoed against the metal sink. "If I just had my sonic-!"

John's phone vibrated just then, and he checked his hands to make sure he had nothing on them before pulling it from his pocket. A text from a number not in his contacts. He opened it curiously.

_John. Where are you? Are you safe? Respond immediately. SH._

He frowned, and typed a reponse.

_Still at the flat, quite fine, doctor is with me. Why?_

He sent it before he realized that Sherlock didn't know their guest was a doctor, but he didn't get the chance to correct himself before an even more urgent message was recieved from a different number.

_Get here. You have been tricked and may be in grave danger. Hurry. Bring my gun. _

The address followed, and Sherlock's ubiquitous initials. John looked up at the Doctor curiously. The man was sink-diving again, albeit not so enthusiastically this time. He paid absolutely no attention to John whatsoever. The medic lowered his gaze to his mobile.

_What about Smith?_

A third number answered this text. Where was Sherlock getting these phones?

_Not real. You have been tricked. Come immediately. SH._

"What...?"

_On my way._

"Doctor Smith."

The Doctor looked up sharply. "Just 'Doctor,' please."

"Right. Come on, we're going to the crime scene."

"Sorry, we're what?"

"You heard me, come on." John started out of the kitchen. The Doctor followed him all of about four steps, then hesitated. John had his coat on before realizing that the Doctor wasn't following.

"Come on!" he urged. "Don't make me force you."

"Are you planning on holding me at gunpoint all the way there? Are we walking?"

"We're taking a cab."

"And you'll hold me at gunpoint in the cab?"

"I-" John hesitated, and the Doctor's newest smile was actually slightly sinister this time.

"Would you shoot me if I tried to run away? In public?"

John exhaled sharply, and stood there. The man had him. He could either ignore Sherlock which he had come to learn never a great idea, or he could let the Doctor go. They both knew that he wouldn't just open fire with a handgun in the middle of London on a busy Saturday afternoon if the man bolted.

"I can finish mopping up, and I'll be on my way," the Doctor suggested lightly.

John stared hard at him, then pulled out his phone again and texted the last number Sherlock had texted him from.

_Smiths not coming with. Can't leave him here. Send an officer._ He'd be damned if he let an intruder just remain in his flat.

It took longer for Sherlock to reply this time, but the message was not only cryptic, but this time chilling, as well.

_He's here. Whatever you see there isn't real. SH. _

John looked up. The Doctor was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, his arms folded, a smug smirk on his face, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle. He raised his eyebrows as John made eye contact.

"Well?"

"Get your jacket," John commanded angrily, walking to a small table with a pad of paper and a pen on it. He began writing down a hasty note, then tore it from the pad and looked around for some tape. Sherlock would never hear the end of this. Whatever was happening. "I'm not leaving you here, I'm locking you out of the flat and I'm leaving a note for Mrs. Hudson that you're not to be let back in." It was the best he could do to make sure nothing was stolen. He had certainly gotten a good enough look at the Doctor that he'd be easily able to recognize him again, and doubtless Sherlock knew everything about the past sixteen years of the man's life from the way he held his left pinkie finger or some other perceptive trick, so he wasn't terribly concerned about the man going unpunished.

"Alright, alright." The Doctor disappeared into the kitchen a moment and returned with his jacket as John found and tore off some tape. The Doctor started across the front room while swishing his coat around to put on with a flourish but he tripped over a small stack of books near the door and fell into John as the man was applying tape to paper. "Sorry!" he apologized sharply as John pushed him off with more than a little impatience and he righted himself again. The medic scowled at him and immediately checked for his gun and his mobile suspiciously. Both were there. His wallet was, too. Nothing was missing.

"That wasn't on purpose," the Doctor said quietly, slightly offended that John would have thought he was attempting to pickpocket him. "You've got a lot of things all over the floor, look." He gestured back at the book stack he'd toppled over.

"Just-go," John said with a sigh, squeezing the bad shoulder the Doctor had collided with before unsticking the tape from itself.

"I'm going." The Doctor left the room and descended the stairs, exiting the entire building. John followed him closely and tacked the warning note to the door for Mrs. Hudson, then locked it.

He hailed a passing taxi, then looked at the Doctor as it pulled up. The man just stood there, smiling.

"It was nice meeting you, John," he said, amiable as ever, his hands clasped behind his back. "I imagine we'll be seeing more of each other rather soon."

John shot him a look. "Yeah, don't you think you're getting away with this...whatever you're doing," he said as he climbed in the car. He told the cabbie where to go, then turned back to the Doctor. "We're going to find you." He closed the door sharply without taking his eyes off the man.

Sherlock had a _lot_ of explaining to do.


End file.
